


What He Deserved

by laurashapiro



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, BDSM, F/M, muldertorture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-19
Updated: 1998-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this companion piece to "The Way She Would", Mulder's guilt and Scully's frustration build to an unusual kind of climax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Deserved

**Author's Note:**

> This story opens at the exact moment "The Way She Would" ends. You do not, however, need to read that story to understand this one.

Thursday night.

 

"Mulder--"

Click.

"Mulder?"

"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number again--"

"Shit," Scully signed, setting the phone down. What she really wanted was to   
throw it across the room. What she really wanted was...but she cut that   
thought off before it could blossom.

I woke up in a good mood this morning, she mused. How did I get so   
*cranky*?

A rare, relaxing day at her desk had turned into an endurance test, as   
Mulder's eyes pinned her like a bug to an entomologist's card. All day long   
she'd felt his gaze, but she couldn't read him. He was hiding something from   
her, but what? Why? Beneath lowered lids she had observed his fidgeting,   
pacing, playing aimlessly with the papers on his desk in a manner that had   
become characteristic of late. For months he had been cold and distant, devoid   
of the playful banter in which they had sometimes engaged, but she   
reluctantly realized that his mood today had been different. Try as she might   
not to take it personally, it was clear that his discomfort today had something,   
maybe everything, to do with *her*.

By the time he was tearing the office apart in search of the Pevensie file, she   
had retreated into her shell, focusing on her own work. Scully bridled with   
resentment at the way he had practically *flown* from the office in order to   
get away from her. And like a good, co-dependent little partner, what had she   
done then? Merely ransacked the office for his precious missing file. And for   
what? She hadn't really thought it through, but when she found the file on   
his desk, Scully's heart had lifted at the idea of being useful to him, at perhaps   
rousing him from his gloom, of seeing him smile.

That she had hurriedly dialed his number with something like elation only   
to have Mulder hang up on her was, she thought ruefully, the perfect   
summation of their relationship. She wanted to drive to his apartment and   
shake him until his teeth rattled. The scene played out briefly in her mind:   
her rage, his guilt, explanations, reconciliation, an embrace, her lips on his...

She quickly wiped the image away, rose, and left the office.

***************

Friday morning.

 

Here goes, Mulder thought, steeling himself as he headed for the basement   
office they shared. Here goes the hardest day of my life.

Oh, come on. Harder than the day you lost Samantha? More difficult than the   
day you almost shot Scully? Worse than when Skinner told you she was   
dying?

Try as he would to gain a little perspective, the horrors in his past did nothing   
to mitigate his present anxiety. Last night he had masturbated with Scully's   
image in his mind, her name on his lips, and in doing so he was convinced   
he had sunk to a new low. For Fox Mulder, that was saying something.

Here it was, their office door. Just another day, he recited to himself, it's just   
another day.

Breezing through the door, he gaily waved "Hiya Scully!" and then cringed   
inwardly as she looked up.

"'Hiya'?"

Damn her, she was as gorgeous as ever. He gulped and looked away, trying to   
stifle the excitement that rose in him at the sight of her.

He was late, he realized. Great. One more thing to feel shitty about. He threw   
his coat in the general direction of the coat rack and sat down at his desk. He   
noticed the Pevensie file. She had stayed late last night finding it for him.   
Right. Begin reparations.

"Hey, thanks for finding this," he began, not looking at her. "I really   
appreciate it, you staying late and spending the time looking for it." He   
flipped through the file blindly. "I mean, I know how busy you are and   
everything..." my god, I'm babbling. Shut up, shut up.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her clear contralto was impossible to read, but   
he was mortified by the thrill it gave him.

"Talk about what?" He answered too quickly. Oh, smooth, man. Really   
smooth.

"Mulder--"

Her 'I'm only trying to help" tone. Great. So the Ice Princess wants *me* to   
open up, huh? Miss 'I'm fine, just dying of cancer, don't mind me.' He   
laughed hollowly. "You don't want to know."

*********************

Friday, 3:45 P.M.

 

By that afternoon, an unusual silence had descended between them. Not that   
silence is unusual in itself, Scully thought, hell, it's our first language. But   
this...I don't recognize us.

There was a warmth to this silence, but it was far from compassion or peace.   
There was a self-protective resentment, yet without the hard coldness of   
anger. Mulder, who had removed his jacket, was sweating. Scully was   
simmering.

If yesterday she had been pinned under Mulder's gaze, today he would not   
look at her at all. She could see that whatever he was hiding had escalated,   
had tapped into his well-fortified reserves of guilt and self-loathing, and in   
that way his mood was familiar. But there was something else, something   
making him behave as nervously as a little boy caught with his hand in the   
cookie jar, something that robbed him of his characteristic feline grace and   
witty tongue, something that would not allow him to meet her eyes. He was   
clearly *ashamed* to meet them. He had resisted every attempt to pry the   
mystery from him, and yet why did she get the distinct impression that he   
wanted her to force the issue?

I'm projecting, she decided. *I'm* the one who wants to force the issue. *He*   
wants me to leave him alone, damn him. Focus, Dana. Get back to work.

"Do you have that report on the Ketterley case?" she asked.

He reached across his desk, handing it to her without looking up, and her   
hand brushed against his as she took it from him. Mulder jerked back as if   
burned, knocking papers from his desk.

Scully started, and felt the throb of her agitated blood scudding through her as   
suddenly as Mulder himself blushed. He wants me, she realized with shock,   
he wants me and he's ashamed of it.

Mulder scrambled to regain composure and paperwork. He barely had time to   
mumble "um, I'm gonna finish this up at home tonight," before he was gone.

The afternoon ticked by for one second, then two, as Scully reeled, accepted,   
considered, and dared to hope.

"Oh no you don't, you bastard." She picked up her purse and ran out the door   
after him before another moment could pass.

***********************

Friday, 4:00 P.M.

 

Shit. She's following me.

Don't do this, Scully. Just leave it alone. You don't want to know.

His heart was pounding.

***********************

He's seen me. Good. Let him sweat a little.

You can't hold out on me forever. This game is over. It ends today.

She licked her lips nervously.

***********************

Mulder went through the motions of locking his apartment door, cursing   
himself (not for the first time) for giving Scully a key. He'd barely pocketed   
his own when he heard hers turning in the lock.

"Go away, Scully."

He could feel her behind him, her eyes boring into the back of his head. How   
long can you keep this from her? he demanded of himself. Forever, he   
thought, clenching his fists. She never has to know.

She was silent behind him, waiting. A wave of love washed through him.   
How well she knows me. He blinked back tears.

"Leave me alone."

He'd meant to be definitive, but his pain betrayed him. His voice broke.

"Uh-uh, Mulder. Not this time."

Then her hands were on his shoulders, turning him toward her, and before   
he could stop her she'd pulled his head down and was kissing him, softly, but   
with great determination.

For a moment all other sensation evaporated in the succulence of Scully's   
mouth; he was barely conscious of her hands sliding through his hair, her   
body yearning toward him. As she broke from his lips and trailed kisses along   
his jaw, he remembered himself and pushed her away.

Scully's heart, which had been hammering her joy into her very bones,   
plummeted. Oh god, was I wrong?

Mulder paced the room for a moment and then sank cautiously to the sofa.   
She wants me! She kissed me! He longed to burst into joyous song, like a   
thousand birds released from their cages. Then the familiar guilt took hold,   
and the barred doors slammed shut. I'm not good enough for her. I can't let   
her make that mistake.

Scully watched him, frightened. Should I just leave now? Now that I've   
made an utter fool of myself? She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry."

"No. No, you shouldn't be. It's my fault."

"*Your* fault."

"I'm not -- I'm not what you need, Scully. I'm a fucked up bundle of   
neuroses. Look at me!" he laughed, an odd barking sound. "I'm obsessed. I   
risk both our lives every day, hurt the people you love, I challenge your faith   
and endanger your professional reputation, and then I come home at night   
and watch 'Hot Bun Busters'. You deserve better."

Her anger rose.

"Do you think it's up to *you* to tell *me* what I deserve?"

He dropped his eyes.

"I'm sorry..."

Stop sniveling, you idiot, she wanted to scream. And at that moment, she   
understood something about herself, and about both of them. She studied   
him as he recited, to his shoes, the litany of grievances, ways he'd wronged   
her, things for which he had not (in his eyes) done sufficient penance. She   
knew what she had to do.

As he spoke, she moved toward him. She stroked her fingers through his   
hair, a comforting, compassionate gesture.

He needs to do penance, she realized. To be punished. Her fingers tightened   
into a fist.

All right, then.

Her voice shattered his monologue. "Take your pants off."

Mulder gaped.

Slap!

Mulder pressed his hand in amazement to his stinging cheek. She hit me.   
Stunned, he felt his penis twitch, as if in recognition of something he could   
not understand.

"You heard what I said."

He looked up at her. In her wrath she seemed to tower above him, an icon of   
dangerous and beautiful rage.

"But Scu--"

"When you address me, you will say 'yes, ma'am'. Is that clear?"

"Ye-- yes, ma'am." Why am I doing this? His face reddened, and not only   
from the force of her palm. With something between curiosity and   
compulsion, Mulder acceded to the strange game she was playing. Although   
he was outwardly shocked, as his fingers trembled at his belt he felt his body   
responding with an intensity, a familiarity he could not deny.

Scully watched him fumble at his fly, his face all softness, and impatiently   
jerked his slacks and boxers down around his ankles.

"Kneel!" she commanded.

Mulder's knees hit the floor before he'd had time to think, and shame   
immediately overwhelmed him at how helpless he felt before her, how eager   
he was to do anything she said. His cock, now fully erect, strained toward   
Scully, who was still fully clothed.

She twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked his head back, feeding hungrily   
at his open mouth for a moment.

"You're a bad little boy. You know that, don't you?" she hissed in his ear.

A rush of lust flooded through him.

"Yes, ma'am."

She stroked his face gently. His cheek tingled where she'd slapped him. "And   
do you know what happens to bad little boys?"

"They get punished, ma'am?" Oh please, Scully. Please. He had no idea what   
he was begging for, merely that he was about to lose the last traces of his   
dignity. He remembered his pants around his ankles, and blushed wildly.

"That's right. They get what they deserve." Scully thrust his chin up so that   
he could not evade her eyes. "Do you think you should get what you   
deserve?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mulder said miserably.

Scully gazed on him fondly for a moment, caressing his neck and shoulders   
with one hand while maintaining her grip on his chin. With a sigh she let   
him go and sat down.

"Very well, then. Over my knee." She patted her lap.

She wasn't serious. She couldn't be serious. My god, Mulder, if you don't   
want this then why is your dick so hard?

He crawled on bruised knees the few inches to where she sat, afraid to stand   
up lest she slap him again. Gingerly he lay his shaking torso across her knees,   
the wool of her skirt scratching against his nipples, and oh god, his cock   
pressed against her thighs. His head was turned away from her, and he could   
feel his blood pounding in the ear that was mashed against the sofa. Her   
warmth and scent surrounded him, and in spite of the chaos in his mind, he   
suddenly felt safe.

"Such a beautiful, beautiful boy," Scully whispered, as she drew her nails   
down his spine. He shivered as her cool hands skimmed his lower back and   
swept down over his ass so lightly that the tiny hairs there stood on end.

The first blow took him completely by surprise. Hot, stinging pain spread   
through his buttocks and he was instantly choked with tears of indignation.   
The next blow fell, and the next, Scully's hand warming as the heat flowed   
through them both. Each moment of contact sent a keen, agonizing vibration   
through his scrotum and cock, and Mulder sobbed aloud in humiliation as he   
realized what her punishment was doing to him.

It wasn't the pain. Scully was spanking him hard with the palm of her hand,   
and while the sting had intensified to a burning ache, it was far from   
intolerable. But the indignity of his position, reddening bottom in the air, his   
utter surrender on his knees, made him harder than he'd ever been. And the   
knowledge that it was *Scully* taking away his control, Scully doing this to   
him, made him want her, and want to please her, more than ever before.

It was like a drug. He was chasing the dragon now, the lust feeding his   
humiliation, the humiliation feeding his lust, the pain (oh, the agony of   
pressure building in his cock) feeding them both, on and on until he could   
not distinguish one burning slap from the next, and his sobs tore his throat.

In desperation he squirmed, whether to avoid her blows or for the pleasure of   
rubbing against her he could not have said. Instantly her hand was in his hair   
again, jerking his head painfully backward.

"Don't you dare," she whispered, "don't you dare try to escape what you so   
richly deserve."She pinched his ear, hard, until he gasped. "Oh, and Fox?"

He thrilled at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, ma'am?"

"I do *not* want a mess on my skirt. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. Yes, ma'am."

He was truly at her mercy, then, he realized. She would not let him come. He   
had no expectation that she *ever* would. She was right. He did not deserve   
it. The blows fell again and he quickly lost count of them.

Mulder held very still, trying not to think about the excruciating need in his   
cock, not to think about the agonizing deliciousness of her soft thighs, trying   
not to squirm away from the hand that seemed tireless, that fell unceasingly   
on his tender flesh. He had gone beyond tears now, into a kind of clear   
euphoria. That was when he noticed the scent rising from Scully.

It wasn't her perfume, which he knew well enough, or her perspiration,   
which he'd encountered sometimes in the field. It wasn't even the clean   
Scully-smell he'd detected occasionally in their more intimate moments. This   
was more intimate still. This was the odor of Scully's arousal, rising from her   
lap in hot damp waves. It took every ounce of control not to climax right   
then.

Something was missing. The roaring in Mulder's ears subsided as he realized   
that she was no longer striking him, that his punshment (that part of it, at   
least) was over. He lay panting over her knees, hot and sweating, filled with a   
gratitude he could no more own than understand.

"Get up. On your knees," Scully directed. Was that passion in her voice, or   
was she just hoarse from the exertion? He regretfully retreated from the   
strange comfort of her lap. He didn't dare raise his eyes, but peripherally he   
could see that Scully's color had risen, and her hair clung to her cheek in   
matted strands. And were those tears in her eyes?

Mulder reeled as a headrush dizzied him. Scully put out a hand to steady   
him, and then with both arms drew him into an embrace.

She held him tightly as their breathing slowed. She was molten; bathed in   
sweat, tears tracking her cheeks, moisture soaking her pantyhose.

I thought I was doing this for him.

She stroked his back again, feeling him shudder in her arms. He was still   
hard, she noticed. She'd felt his erection pressing against her the whole time,   
even as he wept. It had enflamed her.

He wants me so badly. Maybe as much as I want him.

It had taken all her self control to administer the punishment he needed,   
without allowing it to become a reward for herself. How she craved that   
reward.

My god. I'm enjoying this.

"Mulder," she whispered. With his name, she gave back his power, his   
dignity.

He propped himself up on one elbow, meeting her eyes again at last. "Scully.   
How did you *know*?"

"You're not the only one with fantasies, Mulder."

"You fantasize about -- hurting me?"

"I fantasize about pleasing you, Mulder, but I think that for you it's the same   
thing."

He was quiet.

Slowly she slid off of the couch and adjusted her skirt. He watched her, as   
though in a trance, as she picked up her purse and raincoat. She turned again   
to face him.

"I could love you so well, if you'd let me," she told him.

The door shut softly behind her.

 

END


End file.
